


Filtering Dust

by madwanderer



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madwanderer/pseuds/madwanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>| A brief vignette of a moment in Alice and Jefferson's lives; under the imagined world that Alice is indeed his wife, that she's returned to storybrooke and of course, this Alice is nothing akin to the one in the wonderland spin-off, with all due respect. </p>
<p>How long can the dust dance, 'till death do they part? |</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filtering Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madlittlegrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlittlegrace/gifts).



_“My love.”_ His voice is soft, he does not wish to startle her. She’s finely tuned to his quiet tone, though, for if she wasn’t, he would have to raise his voice to be heard and she couldn’t bear the idea of him speaking above his calm means, loud was too frightening. Delicate fingers lowered themselves slowly in the air; they’d been dipped in sunlight from the sitting room’s windows, fingers dancing and entangling themselves with the dust that floated in the air like the sun’s own snowflakes, vanishing as soon as they reach the edges of the ray’s permeations. Her gaze is yet still unfocused, but there’s a shimmer of clarity to the azure orbs when she looks to him and he offers her a warm smile, to which she takes with contentment, the hand that was lowering now offered out to him— a single gesture of greeting, for him to come sit by her.

He padded along the carpet to walk over to her; dressed in his silky nightclothes still, black satin with a collar custom-made and built high enough to cover his neck. He would tell Alice much the same as he told himself; that he hid the scar for Grace’s sake, that he didn’t wish to startle her.

—But god knew what blinding shame the raised protrusion of such a memory brought, and hiding it eased his own perturbed mind. Less anxiety when he was to happen across a reflective surface; less panic wrought at the idea of his dear, sweet Grace running her fingers over it once more, risking tainting her with the disgusting filth he would swear the scar purged daily. Reminiscent of Wonderland in a hellish state, Alice held the purity of those memories, and if his daughter had to learn anything of it he’d prefer it was spoken from clean lips rather than words garbled and raised through a neck and mouth once severed from the body, the spoil’s of Wonderland’s wretchedness.

But none-the-less, his scar was concealed, he sat beside her and he held no qualms when she laid her head upon him, at the dip between the firm muscles of his shoulder and the rise of his neck. She settled herself in comfortably— and with that, her gaze returned to that streak of sunlight from the window, and the two sat, near illuminated on the plush carpeting, watching the dust flit about in the sunlight.

He knew her well; his golden angel, so lost in her own mind even at the best of times, and he smiled down at her much the same as a parent might smile at a child describing a novel, a movie, hidden fantasies that make sense to only a child’s mind as he spoke once more, voice barely surpassing a whisper again.

"What are they doing?" Short, to the point. Because he _knew_ , didn’t he? He knew, with just how her fingers trailed such intricate little patterns in the light that she’d constructed a world once more, and he could only assume the dust was the population of this cosmos of her mind’s creation.

And she smiled in return; the same smile one makes when in the midst of a pleasant dream, the smile reaching her eyes with practiced ease. Her cheeks dimpled and her lips stayed shut in that calming, whimsical state he always found her in. That state that made her so easy to love; that he found such peace and solace in it often-times could bring him to tears with enough insistence, how perfect his mad lover was.

_(And funny that the world calls her mad, when he finds her the epitome of a divine happiness no one else knew quite how to conjure, a presence that drove him mindless in love and want.)_

"Dancing." A light voice, hers far lower and softer than his own tone and he often had to strain to hear it. Her hand was still out; and in her mind’s eye there were dancing figures, much in the same image as pixies and fay, but figures comprised entirely of dust. They spun in something akin to orbs; and dust would fly off their dresses and suits, the tips of their hair, the bottoms of their feet and break away from every extremity, only to bound back from the edges of their own orbs and become a part of them again, a cycle of rebirth yet unbroken. They were dancing in solitary peace before Jefferson had sat with her; but now these sole dancers were melding orbs together, dancing and losing themselves in one another with the tumbling dust, and these lovers were now interchangeable, and she could no longer tell of which part each lover ended and started. She laughed, of course, and in turn so did he— a private joke on her end, but her laugh was an infectious thing, so soft he would compare it to the tinkling of bells, a quality he’d only known to be found in the fay of Wonderland.

"They dance, sweet rabbit?" He prompted, wanting to hear more of her stories, "Do they dance to music, or is it simply how they move?" 

She nodded, not looking at him yet, though she felt his hand meet hers in her odd pattern, swirling through the air. His rested atop of her hand— fingers thick, gnarled with far too many scars, and it was a heavy weight before he wrapped his hand about hers to lift her more-so than drag her down, and he helped guide her fingers in these dancing. She cocked her head at the changes his hand brought, the tumbling of many dancers into an eternal darkness, hoping only to be reborn again rather than be lost with the dust of corners and dust beneath beds, most likely to never dance again.

But this bothered her little, for it was life’s regulations and she was happy to let him guide her hand, bringing about new waves of dancing, panic amongst the dancers that only heightened the beauty she saw.

"It’s their gift," She explained, and finally she stopped looking to speak to him, lifting her head enough so her lips skimmed the small, bare portion of his neck, wrinkling her nose at the hint of stubble she felt but not letting it deter her ministrations, "At night they’re all to die, see. Their gift is to dance in the sun until they fall; and then only to await their rebirth so they may dance again. When they die, no memories are retained— it’s a simple life, really, for all they aspire to do is dance. And, of course, find love in another dancer— but they hadn’t wanted that until you came along, my Hatter." That name she called him— at first to tease him for his odd obsession with the top hat he adorned, but now it was a term of endearment, "They grew jealous, I think, or enlightened at the love you emit."

She was aware, so wholly aware of his infatuation with her, but barely mentioned it— she was so used to it, so childish in how she near-abused his entrapment in her, Of course this was simply a part of his being, so he only encouraged these claims, his lips would twist upwards in a smile and he would angle his head so she may kiss him more, and she did.

Rosy lips pressed gently to a pale throat; stubble ruining the tenderness of his skin but it was a part of him, a lovely part to him and she let their hands drop to their laps, now, both her hands covering one of his, as one of his hands was busy holding her against him, an arm covering her shoulders almost entirely.

"I changed their whole world?" He hummed, amused. She nodded— pale gold strands of hair falling in front of her eyes, and she sat up properly, now, chin inclined towards him so that he may kiss her in retribution, now, always seeking far more from him than she would give.

"You did— you’ve changed the entire way of life, and I’ve yet to figure out if that will become a good thing, or bring about a revolution." There was a tease to her voice, and he found nothing to say to that— her worlds were difficult to assume things of past the initial outlook; the complexities and cultural workings were better left to her descriptions. 

And now, finally, he did kiss her. His own mouth seeking out hers; breath warm in the morning, turning his head so the sunlight did not create that burning red beneath shut eyelids, and he could feel her shift enough to sit in his lap as he kissed her, so ready and willing to be coddled almost akin to a small child.

She needed him desperately; a love for his complete attention and obsession rivalled only by his consuming craving to be needed by her, how selfishly he would hold her, all of her, her emotions and needs and wants, every part of it as his own.

Mad, selfish lovers, consuming each other entirely in a brief kiss in front of a conjured world devastated by their love.


End file.
